Pale Snow
by White as Sin
Summary: China knows filth and he is soon acquainted with a poisonous visitor. Crossover of Hetalia with Pratchett's/Gaiman's "Good Omens."


**Title:** Pale Snow (4 of 4)  
**Fandom:** Axis Powers Hetalia/Good Omens  
**Genre(s):** Angst/General  
**Character(s)|Pairing(s):** China, Pollution  
**Rating/Warning(s):** PG-13, gruesome imagery, mentions of drugs  
**Word Count:** 877  
**Summary:** China knows filth and he is soon acquainted with a poisonous visitor. Crossover of Hetalia with Pratchett's/Gaiman's "Good Omens."

He always sets out the best set of tea things, though he knows that he will be spending hours cleaning the fragile porcelain afterwards. But one does that for guests, no matter what trouble and expense it brings. His hands still have a tremble to them, which he hides with flowing, deliberate movements of his arms and body. The pain he can handle, even when it strikes him harder than a sword thrust. It is the desperation, that humiliating _need_ that he hates the most.

_I went to my knees. I, the gold-red dragon whose claws and coils reached so far, bowed to you when you touched my brow with a poppy…_

White is the color of death. It is the color of bones and snow and ice, of virgin, untouched paper and silk. The pure world to which they go and never return is white. It is the color of the opium he once smoked in a brass pipe, which sent tendrils of pale, languid smoke spiraling upwards like throbbing petals of white chrysanthemums.

Filth is something he was once very distantly acquainted with, unlike the dark and sooty Western cities. China had kept his cities clean, for that was beautiful and right and healthy. But now- He looks out the window to a sky that is perpetually veiled in brown-black. His nostrils burn and he finds himself coughing. He already knows his beloved rivers run foul and poisoned, his lush bamboo forests burnt down to ashes. Vanities, he thinks, even as his heart aches.

It is better not to think about it, he tells himself as he boils the water for tea. He watches the water in the kettle warily, both unsure of his fleeting strength and observant of the proper temperature. Today he brews 平水珠茶, Pingshui Gunpowder or as Arthur calls it, Pinhead Gunpowder, despite the expense, because he has a guest. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the gas range starts to stink and smoke. He is here.

China pastes a smile on his face, for that is all he has, this gentle courtesy. He had taught his beloved siblings of courtesy and etiquette long ago, before they were taken from him, before they rebelled against their guardian. Ungrateful children, he wants to scream, in the fits of sharp joy and sharper fury that come to him so much easily now-

"You are trembling," murmurs the gray-eyed young man in the pure white coat. His voice whispers but no one can ever ignore him when he wants to be heard. He has enticing lips that look like the first blush of color on a plum blossom and his hair is white as milkweed floss and finer than silk.

Yao still keeps the smile on his face. "It has been a long day, aru," he says, adding on the silly, meaningless syllables. He finds that when he does so, he does not stutter nearly so much. Sooner or later, he will get used to it.

Already his little house-which he cleans so thoroughly, even desperately, every day-shows signs of filth. Ash shadows the walls and settles as a thick, thick layer over his few possessions. Mud has been tracked in, a sour stench that dries quickly and leaves perpetual traces over the floorboards. The water, as clean as he can get it here in the city, turns brown and murky and he curses under his breath.

Track filth into my house. Leave your stains on my walls and scrolls. But do not touch my tea, or I will curse you with my dying breath.

The other man smiles and sits on a chair that accumulates grime, accepts smoky-sooty tea with his white fingers that leave ash smudges everywhere. Luckily the silverware is hidden though they will still have a dark patina that will need to be polished off later. How twisted, thinks Yao in the perpetual daze that hovers over his brain, that a man of snow can leave such foul traces.

They do not talk, during these meetings. Or at least, have anything worth saying most of the time. Instead, they drink their tea, or at least, the boy does, and Yao idly watches the iridescent glisten of oil on the surface of his fouled tea. Sometimes his visitor eats the sweets the China offers, off plates that inexplicably gain bits of encrusted food and fossilizing rice. Occasionally, the boy offers him gifts, odd and marvelous little things that seem so very ingenious, or things that have a darker history behind them. His ghostly visitor then gives him papers, plans, or often, money, in filthy, grubby notes. China takes all of them mutely, even as he wants to run off screaming and wash his hands to the bone, white bones underneath his dirty flesh.

But they part congenially, as though they truly are good friends. From the window, Yao watches the boy, that beautiful, foul boy who leaves a trail of filth to counterbalance his purity. Snow is falling in heavy flakes. It is blanketing the world in soft chill mounds. In midst of it, the white child walks, like a perfect white snail with a pearl shell leaving a blackened, acrid trail.

* * *

-According to the National Institute of Health, symptoms of opiate withdrawal include:

Abdominal pain

Agitation

Diarrhea

Dilated pupils

Goose bumps

Nausea

Runny nose

Sweating

Vomiting

Other symptoms include:

Hot and cold chills

Insomnia

Restlessness

Muscle and bone pain

Irritability

Panic

Not a pretty addiction, people.


End file.
